The Ritual
by Redd Summers
Summary: He came to her grave every night. This was his time. He wasn’t able to say goodbye to her, before she leapt off the tower or even at the funeral he was unable to attend, so this was his time to get it right.


**Title: The Ritual**

  
**Author: Redd Summers (ReddSummers@yahoo.com)  
  
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**Rating: PG-13  
  
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**Summary: _He came to her grave every night.  This was his time.  He wasn't able to say goodbye to her, before she leapt off the tower or even at the funeral he was unable to attend, so this was his time to get it right. _ **

**Spoilers: Anything up to, and including, "The Gift."  
  
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**Feedback: Constructive. I welcome comments as well as criticism, don't be shy, just don't be rough. Let's keep it all hugs and puppies.  
  
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**Distribution: Vampyr Dust.  Everyone else: Want? ASK. Take. Have. I don't mind this being reposted somewhere else, but I do want to know where it's at. And I must be properly credited.  
  
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**Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the characters associated within the show were created by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and FOX. Any resemblance to persons either living or undead is strictly unintentional.**

**Author Notes: I'm giving this warning now.  Do not read if you are looking for a happy story.  This is very dark and involves self-mutilation and attempted suicide.  If you are offended or squeamish, stop now and read something else.**

_"Blood is life, lack brain. Why do you think we eat it?"_

_-Spike; The Gift_

            Tonight marks the one hundred and twenty fifth night.  One hundred and twenty five nights of crossing the nearly invisible line between overwhelming depression and blissful insanity.  He wanders over the line of his own free will, knowing that tonight won't be any different.  This is his ritual.  His right.  No one else knows what he does when he is alone.  No one.  Not even Dawn.  It is a nightly event.  When Willow and Tara return to the Summers' home to take over, he knows it's time to start again.  The painful separation of leaving Dawn, the only tie he has left to _her, _always makes him choke up a bit.  It isn't healthy, he knows this, but neither is what he does after he leaves the comfort of the home.  The home that has one less occupant since that fateful battle one hundred and twenty five days ago.

            They had the funeral without him.  On purpose or by sheer ignorance, he didn't know.  Perhaps a combination of both.  They buried her in the woods to keep her death a secret.  If it became known that the Hellmouth no longer had a Slayer guarding it, things would delve into chaos.  So her friends buried her themselves in a hidden part of the woods where the site could only be found if you knew what you were looking for.  It was a daytime ceremony.  Fitting for someone who would give her life to keep the sun shinning.  And she did.

            He came to her grave every night.  This was his time.  He wasn't able to say goodbye to her, before she leapt off the tower or even at the funeral he was unable to attend, so this was his time to get it right.  The hour of arrival was always different; sometimes he would be there for hours, sometimes only minutes, but each time he left at the last possible second before the deadly rays of the rising sun threatened to destroy him.  Not by choice, mind you, but because of the promise he made her.  The promise he had not been able to keep until she had died.  Her sister was the only thing keeping him from meeting the sunrise, the only thing left in his world.

            The trek is not difficult, but it is long.  Being nocturnal by nature, there was only one time he had wished he had a flashlight to help guide him.  But even though the moon had hid behind ominous looking clouds making it nearly impossible for him to see, the moment he wished for the light he immediately regretted even the mere thought.  No light.  This journey was to be made in the dark.  It was part of his ritual and his nature.  He belonged to the dark, therefore he had no right to have light to help him find her.  Besides, it's not as if he couldn't find it anyway.  The path to her grave was as clear to him as his path to her house.  _How bloody sad is that?_ He mused bitterly.

            So here he is again, on the trail of tears.  Of course her friends cried over her, Dawn most of all.  But no one ever sees the glistening in his eyes as he steps over the threshold and into the night.  Once Dawn was snug in her bed and the witches returned, he was off.  Sure, they saw him crying the morning of her death.  He imagines they simply filed it away for future analysis because each of the others were too wrapped up in their own sorrow.  It was painful.  It was selfish.  It was human.  But to see a demon as human wouldn't interest them either then or now.  His eyes would mist over as soon as he started the journey and continue to get worse until he was kneeling by her tombstone crying like a baby.  He knows they don't know he cries over her grave any more than they know what else he does while he is there.  Again, this is his time.

            Tonight he has added another tick mark to the ever-growing tally in his mind.  One hundred and twenty five.  He doesn't know why he keeps track of the days, but it feels important that he does for some reason.  One hundred and twenty five nights he has come to her side.  One hundred and twenty five reasons he has let her down.  One hundred and twenty five ways he could have saved her from having to jump to her death.

            He approaches cautiously.  He is still a vampire and she is still a Slayer, even if she is dead.  The first tear falls at that realization.  He keeps his eyes on the cold granite slab that serves for her marker.  The only indication that someone is laying six feet below the surface.  After all this time, the rectangular indention of her grave has melded back into the floor of the woods.  Like nothing had ever disturbed the earth.  This thought always disturbs _him_.  He stubs out his cigarette long before he reaches her grave, throwing the used butt in the opposite direction so her place will remain clean and undisturbed.  It would be disrespectful for anything less.

            He stifles a laugh.  How ironic it is that he had come to Sunnydale intent on killing her four years ago and now he is teaching himself lessons on respecting the cleanliness of her grave.  _How the mighty have fallen_, he thinks and, just as quickly, feels the wave of personal disgust roll over him like a tsunami.  _She_ was mighty.  _She_ had to fall.  And suddenly, things are not quite so funny anymore. 

            "Evenin', love," he begins.  He likes to keep the conversation status quo between them.  He is not delusional, but he likes to think that somewhere she can hear him.  He brushes off the few leaves that have fallen onto her marker and inwardly flinches away from the cold.  He believes it is universally wrong for someone so full of warmth and colour to be identified for eternity by such a cold and drab stone.  He allows himself a moment to indulge in the fantasy that she isn't in the coffin six feet below him, that it is someone else.  That Buffy will come out of the woods, catching him in his ritual of talking to himself.  She would sneak up on him and shoot a snarky comment or two at him, bringing him out of his sole repertoire and scaring the hell out of him.  

            But the fantasy fades as he waits for the comment from her.  It never came.  He isn't surprised, it never does.  He had seen her die and had accepted it on some level.  That doesn't mean he could not hope that he and her friends have all been the victims of a cruel joke.  That hope, at times, is more painful than her actual absence from the universe.  When the fantasy is over, he shrinks to his knees and takes off his coat.  He wears it as a badge, same as the scar above his left eye.  Both the coat and the scar are symbols of his demonic pride.  He had the deaths of two Slayers by his own hands wrapped up in these symbols.  Now, he takes the only one he can off to not offend the spirit of the Slayer he loves.  

            He gets off his knees and sits fully upon the dew painted grass, leaning his back against the side of her tombstone.  He casts his eyes heavenward and is amazed how many stars are out tonight.  There isn't a cloud in the sky and it's a full moon.  An idle thought about werewolves passes through the turbulent jumble he calls his mind.  But it is gone just as easily as it came and is forgotten in seconds.  The night's chill begins to creep through the thin material of his black long sleeved shirt, but it is in vain.  Since he has no body temperature to keep at a normal 98.6 degrees, he is not prone to shifts in outside temperatures.  He is slightly amused nature herself doesn't care what he is; she still tries to make him cold.

            He removes the flower from the pocket of his duster he plucked on the way to visit her.  Every night he feels compelled to bring her something.  Maybe because he doesn't want her to feel unloved, maybe because it's the right thing to do when visiting someone's grave.  Whatever the reason, he doesn't care, it has been part of his ritual ever since he began visiting her and he won't stop anytime soon.  Most times it is a flower, but there were a few times it was a small trinket or a few knickknacks he came across that held so much meaning he had to give them to her.  Even if it were just to a piece of land with a cold stone sticking out of the ground, they were for her and no one else.  Whenever he came, though, he would always take the previous night's flower and throw it away to decompose alone in the woods.  No dying thing would ever touch her resting place.  Keeping with tradition, he picks up the withering and limp yellow daffodil he brought yesterday and tosses it away leaving a beautiful violet in its place.

            "It's a beautiful night tonight.  Who knew a place only two hours away from a city known for its smog could have such a clear night?  I mean, once you can get out of the damned city full of street lamps and neon signs, you can actually see those mythological tiny pinpricks of light known as stars." He is babbling now, but he does not care.  He is facing away from her grave, his back still resting on the stone, but he could picture her mirroring his image on the other side of the slab in his mind.  He just imagines she is there and that she just doesn't want to talk and everything doesn't feel quite so lonely. 

            "Dawn told me somethin' tonight, pet," he continues. "I promised the Bit I wouldn't tell anyone, but you bein' her big sis and all, thought you should know.  She met some one.  She dinn't tell me out right, of course, but you know how teenage girls go on and on about their crush...  She dinn't mention the wanker's name, probably 'fraid I'd go and do somethin' to shoot her chances all to hell.  But I listened to her talk about him, knowing that if you were there, it would be you that would have to.  The Bit's growin' up, Slayer, she's in need of some guidance.  Can't really help her in the department of boys, now can I?  And the lover wicca's? Will might be able to help her figure some stuff out, but who knows." Spike smiles to himself before continuing, knowing she would be worrying. "And don't worry, love.  I'm keepin' her far from Anya's influence."

He continues on for a good thirty minutes, telling her all that happened that day.  When he finally runs out of things to say about them, he begins the most painful part of the ritual.  He starts talking about how he is doing.  Honestly.  Each time he begins, he has to force himself not to lie to her.  He always wants to start off saying "I'm doing alright," but the truth is he isn't.  He is far from all right.  So he lifts the blanket that shields his true feelings from view.  These feelings are still as raw and intense as they were the day she died.

            "I'm not doing any better, love," he whispers. "Each time I come to see you like this, I hope that the pain will lessen.  But it doesn't.  It just gets worse.  Tally says today's one hundred and twenty five nights since you… jumped." The tears return as he continues. "You shouldn't have had to do that, Buffy.  It's my fault.  Today I dreamt I saved you by the simple action of killin' that damn toad-tongued demon the day I met him.  Then he wouldn't have been there to slice up Bit while you were knockin' that Glory chippee around down below.  If I'da done that in the first place… Things woulda been a hell of a lot different."  He caresses the grass of her grave idly as he speaks, his eyes darting around wildly as if he is expecting something to happen.  But nothing does.  He isn't surprised.

            He continues on his tirade, his self-disgust being vocalized not only by his words but also by the venom in his voice.  He is angry.  Angry at fate, angry at the world, but most importantly, angry at himself.  His words reflect the tired and broken mess his mind has become.  His voice ranges from incoherent babble to angry shouts to hushed whispers, modulating inconsistently without him even knowing how insane he sounds.  This is the only time he finds solace since her death.  When he believes he is watching over her.  

For the millionth time he admits he wants to die, but for the first time he realizes how ironic that statement is.  Technically, he is dead.  Well, undead really.  So, he amends his thoughts.  He wants to be as dead as she is so he can lie in the cold, damp earth as she does.  To be with her again.  He knows that he has only a one-way ticket to Hell once his time comes, but he isn't thinking about it selfishly.  He wants to be with her, but not to the point where she would have to join him in Hell.  But, to be perfectly honest, he knows there would be no way Heaven would take him in, either.  Oh, her friends might not believe him.  They may think she is trapped in a Hell dimension, but he can't – he won't – believe that someone of her intensity and light could ever be trapped in the darkness of Hell.  So where does that leave them?  He wouldn't drag her to Hell, but she couldn't bring him to Heaven.

He reaches into the pocket of his pants and retrieves the black and silver pocketknife he has started carrying.  He doesn't remember the name of the guy who he nicked it off of, just that he remembers his blood tasting a bit sour.  He brings the blade out and throws it with all his strength into the nearest tree trunk.  And suddenly, his anger subsides into an eerie calm.  The kind that poets and artists have tried in vain for hundreds of years to describe.  The calm penetrates his nerves and even manages to make him draw an unneeded deep breath into his dead lungs.  He notices finally that he is silent.  He wonders when he had stopped ranting, but knows it is of no matter.  He stands in the silence and retrieves the knife from its resting place of the wood.  

            He is in a daze, now, his emotions are too much.  There is too much pain, one hundred and twenty five days of sheer torment accumulating upon his cold heart.  Each day sees the onset of yet another failure to her and her memory.  He believes he isn't even worthy enough to hold on to the memories he has.  But those memories are the only thing that brings him out, the only thing to make him cross back over that line.  Back to the depression.  That's what he shows to the others, he doesn't allow them to know just how crazy his world has become.  They would not understand and they would not trust him with Dawn anymore.  But when he's here, alone with Buffy's grave, he knows what he must do.  It is why he had started carrying the knife in the first place.  

            He remembers the night they fought Glory with uncanny crystal clarity.  He had been gathered with the rest of the lot at the Magic Box when Giles had informed everyone that the ritual Glory would perform was a bloodletting.  This seemed to shock everyone.  Everyone but him, of course. "Blood is life, lack brain. Why do you think we eat it?" Simple equation, really, Dawn's blood was the thing Glory needed to open her portal. "It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard." Dawn was made from Buffy and Buffy wouldn't let anyone or anything touch her sister. "Makes you other than dead." Because Spike had failed to keep Dawn from getting cut, the portal opened.  There was really only one thing the Slayer could have done to protect Dawn _and_ the world. "Course it's her blood."  

            The first night he drank.  Nothing mattered, he wasn't responsible for anyone but himself that night.  He turned his crypt upside down finding each and every bottle that contained anything with alcohol and drank until he couldn't think straight any longer.  He had decided to go for a walk even though he knew he would most likely only get into trouble.  Pent up aggression and seething anger boiling in a sea of mixed drinks never had a good ending.  He did not know why, but he tore the place up, going through all the nooks and crannies of his stuff looking for the damn knife.  He knew he had it but he simply couldn't remember where he kept it.  Being as intoxicated as he was wasn't helping in the investigation.  After an hour or so, and the place entirely ripped apart, he slipped the knife into his pocket and stalked into the night.

            Walking was difficult not to mention he had absolutely no clue where his feet were taking him.  All he knew was that he had to get out of there.  But wherever he went, he felt he had to get out of there, too.  So he kept walking.  He decided to walk until the pain went away or he got sober, whichever came first.  He had a sinking feeling that it would be the latter of his options that would occur.  He didn't know what time it was nor did he care.  All that he cared about was finding an outlet of his rage.  Once he was able to focus on his surroundings, he knew where his feet had taken him and he nearly lost what reserve he had.  Her grave.  

            The dirt was still fresh, the smell of new earth pungent in the air.  He stared down at the gravesite with a silent awe.  There was no tombstone yet; Dawn had said something about wanting to make it special and that they would need a few days.  He had no idea how long he was staring at the site before his senses kicked in and chastised him for not bringing a gift.  He looked around and found some wildflowers growing just a few yards away.  He crossed over quickly, snatched a handful up and placed them lovingly at the head of the dirt.  

            He remembered lying down beside the rectangular shaped dirt mound and looking up at the sky.  Minutes passed like hours as he openly wept.  His hands clenched into fists and he hit the ground.  No pain.  It took longer for him to realize this than normal, so he kept striking the ground.  Nothing.  He guessed that he had drunk himself into a numb state, and that began to drive him crazy.  He unceremoniously stood from the ground and walked over to the nearest tree.  He kicked it, but still he felt nothing.  So he tried punching it.  He managed to slice three of his knuckles, but he didn't feel it.  All he could feel was the loneliness her absence caused, he would much rather have a physical pain than the emotional kind.  

            And then he noticed the blood.  _Blood is life, lack brain,_ he reminded himself.  He licked his knuckles and felt a tiny stinging pain in his hand.  The alcohol still coated every nerve of his like a blanket, but it was beginning to wear off.  _Blood is life._ It was his personal silent mantra as he watched the wounds on his hand began to heal.  A bonus of being a vampire. And then, either by intent or by the fact he was slowly sobering, he knew what he had to do.  If the emotional is too hard to deal with, concentrate on the physical.  

            A sharp pain in his wrist brings him out of his reverie and he looks down.  The knife is embedded into his skin deeply, biting into his cold veins.  He is shocked, never before has he lost himself to his memories of his past that reflects his present.  But the shock soon goes away and he cuts deeper into his skin.  He knows his blood is tainted, that on the basic level it isn't even his blood – just borrowed from animals to keep his undead body moving – but it doesn't matter.  It is the only thing that he can offer her.  When the knife is buried so that only half of the steel blade is visible, he slides it out reveling in the pain.  This is something on which he can focus.  It is a macabre symbiosis; at least he likes to tell himself that.  He gets physical pain to focus his attention on while the blood leaks from the deep wound onto her grave.  He wants to believe that one day it will be enough to bring her back.  To give her life from his borrowed blood.

            He has learned to cut the wound deeply enough so it would not heal quickly.  His eyes glaze over as he watches the blood flow from his wrist onto the grave below.  This is his one hundred and twenty fifth time he's slit his wrist for her and each time he feels just a little bit better.  He is doing something for her without anyone knowing what it means to him.  He thinks how wonderful it would be for her to appear the next day because his blood gave her life.  But life cannot come from death; he knows this painfully well.  Yet he still tries to give everything for her.

            He is feeling rather lightheaded; he does not know how much he lost tonight.  _How long has it been bleeding,_ he wonders.  It is getting harder to focus on the pain in his arm, his other senses have been steadily screaming at him for a while.  He looks to the sky and first notices the bright and bountiful stars that he gazed at when he first arrived are now being obscured.  He can only see the brightest of the stars, now, with the sky now a beautiful indigo instead of black.  The sun will be up soon.  Spike casts his eyes back to the headstone and smiles slightly.  He traces the indentions of her name as he lets his deepest emotions flicker across his face.  There is no use in describing what he feels, either to her friends or to himself.  If she is watching him like he believes, then she will know and understand.  And that is all that matters to him.  

            "I gotta get goin', pet.  Vampires tend to get a bit dusty if we get too much sun."  He picks up his coat and allows himself one last look at the bloody grass. "I'm keepin' my word.  Dawn's safe between me and the Scoobies, so you can rest easy enough."  He glances up once more and knew he won't get back to his crypt before the sun is fully up, so he raises the coat above his head to use as a blocker of the suns deadly rays.  He starts walking out of the clearing, but just before stepping back into the woods, he turns back to face the grave.

            "I am sorry, love."

            And he is gone.  Back to the world and back to his home to get some much needed sleep.  The time he will devise yet another way to save her.  Then he will awaken and add another tick mark to the tally.  Night will fall and he will begin the ritual of pain all over again.  His wound will heal before he goes to Dawn, it always does.  No scars label his arms.  Yet another bonus of being a vampire.  But, on the inside of his animated dead flesh, the scars refuse to heal.  

And that is why he clings to his nightly ritual.  

_The End_


End file.
